


the moon kept on rising

by fahrentiam



Series: oh, peacemaker [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Gun Violence, Introspection, Light Angst, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:06:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29565846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fahrentiam/pseuds/fahrentiam
Summary: The first time Boone met the Courier, he almost shot her.
Relationships: Craig Boone/Female Courier
Series: oh, peacemaker [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2172084
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. bullet boundary

**Author's Note:**

> This is a piece of something I started writing a Long time ago (2014, I think?) and I finally am shaking the dust off of it. Expect more in the future.

The first time Boone met the Courier, he almost shot her. It was a shameful near-mistake that had left him prickling with anxiety even though he knew no one but her had noticed, let alone seen his trigger-finger twitch.

It had been near dawn, when the blue-black of the sky had just begun to peel back into something approaching light. A quiet, peaceful time. 

Boone was in a foul mood. The day before had been long, his attempts at sleep plagued with legion red and blood red, and every crimson sunset he would never share with his better half. He was nursing a hangover, not bad enough that looking through his scope made his stomach lurch, but it was a close thing. His head pounded, eyes stung. As long as he stayed still and quiet, though, he could bear it. It was better than numbness. 

There had been no movement in his scope all night, save for a lone gecko or two far enough away that the chance of actually hitting them wasn’t worth the cost of the .308’s. He tried to save his shots for other people, most animals just moved on if given the time, and he found no satisfaction at seeing them fall. Not the same as the hot righteousness that rushed through him when he was lucky enough to catch a Legionnaire in his sights, even though that was a rare thing. Seems like someone up in the ranks noticed that patrols out front of Novac had a nasty habit of not returning healthy and hale.

Boone was tired. More apathetic than usual. His legs and back had cramped hours ago, settling into a dull throb he was used to, a penny of the penance he owed. He had complained and grumbled and cried enough for a lifetime already, he was willing to forego comfort for vigilance. It wasn’t like there was anyone left around who cared for him much either way. It had been weeks since he had really spoken to anyone. He didn’t have any friends left. At first, right after he had returned from his attempt at rescue, he had tried questioning anyone who would listen; pointed, angry words with nothing but pain behind them, and had been met with pale sympathy and condolences. He couldn’t hunt a traitor with kind words, though, and even those platitudes had run dry months ago. Nobody was willing to hear any more of his questions. Most of his daily interaction was a nod to Cliff, and—on a good day—the same to Manny. The rest of Novac gave him a wide, but sympathetic berth. Like he was some rabid dog too busy snapping at the world to notice how sick he was. Maybe he was. It didn’t matter now anyways. As long as when he finally went down he took more Legion with him, he was satisfied.

The night was almost over, now. He had just glanced up at the sky, guessing it wasn’t an hour or so until he could trade out and retreat to his room, when—there, a flash of movement to the left. His heart thudded once, twice, in anticipation, then slowed as he looked down the sights, mouth dry as he readied a shot. It was deeper than instinct, something baked into his bones, that rush of tingling excitement at the potential to see legion red at the end of his scope. There hadn’t been enough lately. Two running figures, one behind the other, headed in a straight shot up the broken road, coming towards the dino, and fast. They weren’t being chased as far as he could tell. He took a moment to consider the appearances of the two while his sight wandered from head, to gut, and back again. Not legion, disappointingly. Head, then. The one in front was smaller, slighter, fumbling with something in their hands. Gun, he assumed. It was a safe assumption in the Mojave. First attempted raid, maybe? Novac was a bad place to try that kind of thing. The one behind was larger, bare chested, smeared in blood, a blade in his hand. Not as immediate a threat as the first. Just a pair of dumb scavver teens cutting their milkteeth, probably. Well, not if he or any of the other residents of the town had any say in the matter. It wouldn’t be the first couple of would-be raiders he had helped bury. What a waste. He exhaled, aimed slightly forward to anticipate the momentum of the first figure’s sprint. Fired. But even as his gun barked out, his target spun on their heel, and shot their companion. He swore, reloading. Not companion, his brain provided. Pursuer. It had been awhile since he had taken a shot he regretted as soon as it left his rifle.

The figure flinched at the noise of Boone’s shot, slug harmlessly kicking up a puff of dust and sand a few inches behind their feet, but they did not turn to look for him, keeping their attention on their bare-chested would-be assailant. The man they had shot had reeled back at the impact, hand going to his shoulder, before he lunged forward again, blade in hand. Boone’s second shot was much more satisfying than his first. The man went down hard, skidding a red trail in the dust and gravel, sending enough debris flying that for a moment Boone couldn’t see what was happening. It had hit him solidly in the chest, but he could not tell if it was enough. He itched to take another shot, to take at least one piece of scum out of the desert tonight, but the risk of hitting the unknown other was too great. The possibility of innocent blood outweighed the potential gratification. It had to. The first shot was already too close. After a moment he heard another, no, two more shots, and then silence. The dust began to drift away in the breeze and he got a better look at the figure, who was casting their gaze around cautiously for the source of the shot that still echoed in the pre-dawn quiet. They were slim, wearing a wide brimmed hat that threw their face into shadow, and clad in dark road leathers. Not obviously a raider, ganger, or legion, just some rag-tag drifter. Just some person running for their life he had almost but a bullet in. Boone adjusted his aim, slightly, letting his gaze drift down to look at the man bleeding out on the ground. His bare chest was covered in blood, black in the low light. He twisted, arm jerking in a motion like he was trying to thump himself in the chest, or scrabbling for the source of blood. Boone had seen that desperation before. Caused it. The stranger looked on, considering, it seemed. The dying man shuddered, gasping for air around the mouthful of his own blood. He twitched again, a brutal spasm ripping through his whole body. Boone did not hesitate to put a round in the poor bastard’s head for good measure. Seeing the body still sent a surge of satisfaction through him. Never can be too sure.

The remaining stranger, eyes trained now at the mouth of the dinosaur, was very still. Boone couldn’t blame them. He would hate to be in his sights in the middle of the night, completely exposed. But even so, he felt like the one exposed. Their gaze was heavy, and all he wanted to do was retreat, let them pass into town without having to see the face of the person he had almost blown the head off of, but he couldn’t. The mistake laid so heavy in his mind and all he could do was watch. Slowly, they holstered their gun, raising steady hands to their head. For a moment it reminded him of Bitter Springs. Of old, helpless people raising their hands to the sky in a plea for mercy. Those same, unarmed hands, lying still in the dirt. It could not happen again. Then, in a slow, deliberate motion, they took their hat off, letting a great tumble of dark hair out, spilling out over their shoulders. His breath died in his throat, sweat beading on his upper lip. 

A woman. 

For a moment he stayed still, frozen, heart suddenly beating faster. The familiar sickly-cold wash of memory and guilt and regret flushing up from his gut. It settled into his teeth and sucked his mouth dry, rushing in and out of every part of him like dirty, irradiated water. For a moment, he thought he might vomit. 

It did not even matter that he could not see her face, could not pick out all the features that were not Carla. The parallel was too much. It was just like he was back there. An innocent head in his scope. His wedding ring felt like ice where it hung around his neck. A pound of pressure with his finger, and her head would pop like a ripe cactus fruit. It had, once. Not hers. Carla’s. Shit. He hated how weak in the knees just seeing a reminder made him feel. How he could barely feel his fingers where his legs touched the floor, how he knew his hands were shaking.

If it was a ploy for mercy, it was effective as hell. She couldn’t know, but it almost felt pointed. The stranger raised the hat in her hand, waving it like a demure white flag with her other hand still in the air. If not firing again was a mistake, he would pay for it later. He could taste blood in his mouth, he wouldn’t have more on his hands tonight. 

He swallowed, and drew his rifle back onto his lap, reloading it smoothly, even as he felt distinctly off balance. His hands were shaking, cold sweat beading at the back of his neck. Was he so far gone that just seeing a woman’s face in his scope made his heart clench and his aim falter? So bloodthirsty that he almost shot her before he knew she wasn’t a real threat? Maybe it was time to move on from Novac, if so. Cottonwood or Nelson weren’t that far. 

For a moment, all Boone could do was breathe. He leaned his head back, looking away from the road. His heart was racing, so loud in his ears it was all he could hear, his mouth full of saliva. He breathed. Steady. The night air was cool and dry on his face, the floor warm with his residual body heat. He could hear the faint crunch of footsteps of the stranger, making her way up the road. Far off, a door opened and closed. The sky was almost lightening in earnest now, the stars at the very edge of the horizon beginning to fade away. Even without his scope, he could see a group of bighorners in the distance, grazing on dry, brittle grass. He exhaled, his hands no longer shaking.

Once he had gathered himself for a moment, still struggling to swallow down the bitter taste in his mouth, he glanced out of the perch again, looking to the woman making her way up the road. She was wiping her hands on her pants, leaving dark streaking stains. The blade of the fallen man was now strapped to her hip, glinting against her road leathers. She looked up, then, as if feeling his eyes on her. He felt her gaze just as much as she felt his, steady and calm. There was no heat or edge to it, just consideration. She was still too far to make out any of her features, cast in shadow as she was. He wished dearly that she wasn’t, even just so he could give a face to the phantom, to the not-Carla. She broke her gaze away first, but it did not feel like she had conceded in any battle of wills, just that he had lost her attention. He felt shaken, in a way that he hadn’t in a long, long time. He should turn away, continue watching for any stragglers following her, but it was like he was hypnotized. Her pace was steady, but slow, with no hurry in her step, boots leaving even, measured prints on the dust-covered asphalt. The long dark hair had been once again tucked under her wide-brimmed hat. She did not slow as she made her way up the road, finally disappearing around the curve of the hill.

He felt hollow, haunted. It was just a drifter, he tried to think, flexing his fingers and re-assuming his stance, watching out over the road. But it hadn’t felt like one, in that moment. In that moment, it had felt like a ghost. The dawn began to break now, and he waited, almost expecting—hoping, dreading—to hear unfamiliar boots on the steps. To see the face that he had almost left splattered in the dust. To settle some of the turmoil roiling in his mind, to scoff at a question and never see them again. He listened for a new voice speaking to Cliff, or even the sounds of a struggle, his foolish trust in a stranger betrayed. But it did not come. His only companion was the deep blue sky, the faintest hint of red beginning to well up at the horizon. Bright, cherry red. He tried to not look down at the corpse in the sand, deep crimson spilled out around it, but he could not help but stare. He really needed to get out of town. Maybe for good.

Eventually, Manny’s familiar stomps heralded his arrival, nods were exchanged, and he left his post, returning to his dark, empty room. He tried to sleep, then, exchanging his shaken thoughts with old nightmares, but his dreams were strange, and filled with dark moon-dappled wastes, and long, dark hair.


	2. i'll miss you, till i meet you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boone drinks. Boone regrets. The Courier comes knocking.

Boone did not actually see the woman outside of his scope until two days had passed, ripples of gossip about the stranger reaching even his solitary ears. 

The other residents of Novac didn’t talk to him much, not anymore, but any news to be had was discussed loudly, frequently, and wildly enough that it was impossible to miss it. Apparently— he’d heard while he stood outside of his room, drinking in the warm evening air— she had come from around Primm or Goodsprings, and was tall, quiet, and carried a heavy pistol that rarely left its holster. The pair speaking seemed impressed. He had seen that pistol in action, and how her reluctance to shoot almost cost her her life that night she arrived in town. After he slept another fitful night’s sleep he had also overheard that she was married to the highest roller in Vegas, wrestled a deathclaw barehanded, and had made Jeannie May laugh and smile like she was a young girl again. He did not give these, or any following snippets, something about taking a shotgun blast to the skull and getting up again, much thought. He knew the sorts of things the rumor mill thought about him and Carla, even before they had been betrayed. Heard his praises sung and her name cursed, and then the opposite and then back again all in the span of a week until the newest spectacle rolled through town, and they were old news. He trusted his own eyes and ears, and very occasionally his gut, but that was it. And for some reason, his instincts wanted to know more. 

The next day even Manny mentioned her as he was chatting to Cliff, some passing comment about a newcomer that he’d spoken to during the hours that Boone had been dead to the world. He wanted to ask after her, for no reason he could fathom, but another ounce of vitriol and bitterness towards his former friend was all that he could muster. It was routine, more than truly earned, but there was some genuine heart to it this time. However childish it might be, but he wished he had been on duty when she had come to their post. He was the one constantly thinking after her. He had been the one that had almost shot her. He had been the one she had nodded at as she passed below him. He had been the one she trustingly turned her back on even when he had already nearly killed her. And so he grunted, and took his post. 

What made it all worse was that in the two days since she had wandered into and out of his scope, there hadn’t been a single legionnaire, powder ganger, or raider to occupy his mind, even for a second. The body she had left behind on the road in the pre-dawn confrontation had already been dragged away by scavengers, but a trace of blood still remained. It had distracted him, the first time he saw it, isolated and dark against the dust. Rust and copper. It could have been her blood, if he had shot a moment quicker. If she had not moved to take down her attacker, blind to the danger at her back. Just one more maybe-innocent on his kill list. His hands itched as he double checked his gloves. The night before a lone radscorpion had lingered in and out of range of his rifle for almost an hour, aimlessly picking over the remains of something in the distance, and it took all his self-control to not spend every last one of his bullets plinking away at its hide. He ached to get something else in his sights, so the still faceless not-Carla with the reluctant gun arm was all he thought of as he sat through the night. 

She occupied his thoughts, badly. As he slept, as he sat at his post, as he drank alone at night. He did not understand it. He was huddled in his dark, empty room, nursing a bottle of bourbon, and all he could think of was her. It was a dark, niggling constant, the thought of the woman he had almost killed, and he sunk into a comfortable spiral of self-hatred. He had already killed one innocent woman, what was another? He drank deeply again, warmth flooding his already too-warm body. He hated her a little, too. All it took was a few minutes of silence and she had knocked his thoughts so off course he wasn’t sure if he could shoot straight. He was a soldier, even if he was retired. Why should anyone be able to be so arresting? He should have just shot her. Killed her. 

Not killed. Murdered. He should have murdered her because his broken mind got so obsessed after he made a mistake? What the fuck was he thinking? He knew, logically, that he had killed other women, before and after his wife. He would likely kill more. Evil and mindless chaos had no gender, race, or creed, it could take any form and take over anyone. It had taken over him many times, rotted him out already. But to murder? To kill without reason or self-defense? It made him sick. 

He could see the almost-kill so clearly, it soured his stomach and made his hands clammy. An almost sob cracked his chest. A moment spent better, a more precise shot, her head exploding in his sights. The bandit would have thanked him, he thought. Thanked him for making his job easier, dragging away the headless body back into the wastes. The splatter of gore all the evidence she had come across Novac at all. Fuck. He did not hesitate to vomit into the wastebin next to his bed. He stared down into the bin for a moment, brow furrowed, the enormity of the emotion he was feeling hurt. Unfelt grief. Felt guilt. He was confused. And drunk. He had another shift soon. Although—his sad, fucked up head reminded him—he was so shaken and jumpy he might as well just crawl out of the wastes and die right now. Almost shooting off the head of some innocent was far enough. It couldn’t happen again. 

As he lay there, he thought about how easy it would be for it to never happen again. 

The bourbon sat, neglected, on his nightstand as sighed, and hobbled to the bathroom, intending to rinse out his mouth with stale water. Instead, he met his own pale, haunted face in the mirror. He looked like shit. Eyes red, lips chapped, dark circles and a flaking patch of skin near his temple. He hadn’t looked so bad a year ago. Carla had been alive a year ago. Shit. His tired fingers gripped the sink hard, breathing hard as he clenched and unclenched his hands. He was so tired of living the way he was. He filled his palms with water, pouring it over his hot face, swishing it in his acrid mouth. In a few days, he would leave town. He was so tired. 

He collapsed into the too-large bed, falling asleep as soon as his eyes shut. He did not remember his dreams, but when he awoke his heart hurt in the way he knew he had been dreaming of Carla. At least he could still remember what her face looked like. 

The sky was already almost dark when he reached his post that night, the town quiet. Manny was waiting for him, smoking a cigarette and humming some old army tune as his gaze wavered across the wastes in front of him. They did not meet each other's eyes as the exchange occurred, the smell of smoke swiftly dissipating. It was for the best. It had to be. What warmth the sun had left was quickly fading from the wood of the dino, and the chill was settling in fast. The sunset was almost over, red staining everything even as purple-black twilight crept in, and he was not sure if he imagined the faint smell of cooking meat, or if the breeze was really carrying it. He was in for a long night. His head ached from the day before, bourbon even half-vomited away still had its vicious fingers in his gut. He wanted to forget about the damn stranger, and ground himself in the duty of guarding the town again.

He would have no reprieve, however, as he was not alone for long. 

He had barely settled down, still fiddling with his gloves, when he heard the door to the gift shop close. Not unusual, it barely registered on his radar. Drifters flitted in and out all the time. His rifle settled against his shoulder as he leaned against the mouth, focusing on a far-off cactus to get his eye used to the familiar job. Someone had cut off one of the arms of the plant, the discarded limb lying nearby. His hands would not shake. His thoughts would not wander. His eye wandered further away, looking for movement. A cazador buzzed aimlessly around a muddy pond, across the road, its pace lazy and unconcerned. An unfamiliar voice, however, distinctly feminine, caught his attention. A laugh split the air. His breath caught in his throat, then, and he listened. 

The cazador ambled further away, eyes set on a lone bighorn calf. The voice conversed briefly with Cliff, said something that made him laugh again, and then there—footsteps on the stairs. Boone could not help the shiver of gooseflesh that erupted across his back, the sweat gathering behind his ear. His focus was completely shot. Any gathered composure was gone. Was it her? 

It seemed like an eternity until the footsteps reached the top of the stairs. The cazador continued to stalk the calf, he could almost hear the buzz of its wings. He could hear the thrum of his heartbeat. Then, there was a noise at the door, and the rusty metal creaked open. For a moment, he hesitated. It could be just another drifter. But he straightened, eyes leaving the cazador, and met the level gaze of the stranger.

Even bathed in the blood red sunset, she does not look like she belongs in the Mojave. She is tall, meeting his gaze evenly, broad shouldered. Her eyes are large and dark, a solemn mouth, and a proud, square jaw. Her skin pale, but freckled. The dark hair that had so distracted him the night he almost shot her was no longer tucked under her hat, but falls in waves down almost to her elbows. It is wrong, so wrong, but the sight of her blooms something hot and wanting in his chest. She is real. A face to his almost-sin. Not a ghost, or a phantom. Just a woman.

“What are you doing up here?” He spits, instinct. Her gaze doesn’t waver.

“The other evening,” she says flatly, voice low and smoky, accented in a way he can’t place. “I appreciated your help.” She crosses her arms, leans against the wall, solid gaze not leaving his face. “I asked if someone could pass on my thanks, but not a soul in town was willing to come talk to you.” Sick validation bloomed in him at that, even as shame lapped at his heels. He thanked any wasteland god that could hear that his glasses shielded his surely shattered expression. “I’m curious, what could one of the town defenders have done to warrant such a,” she paused, eyes flicking from his gun, up to his face, “cold reputation?” A muscle in her jaw twitched as she considered him. He did not like being considered like that.

He grunts. He is overwhelmed. Rubs a knuckle into his wrist.

“Not the friendly type.” Her lips press together tightly, firm. Nods.

“I gathered. I spoke to your friend, Manny?” He feels his jaw clench involuntarily at that.

“Not my friend.” Hadn’t been for a long time. “What are you doing up here?” He repeats.

“I thanked him, thought he was the one that saved me.” Saved her. He blanches. Not saved. Tried to murder. “He told me he only works day, you at night, and even he didn’t want to pass on my message.” Why did even your friend not want to speak to you, was unspoken, but he hears it all the same. “Came here to thank you.” It is such a simple sentiment, but it blooms resentment in his chest. How can you think that, when I almost blew your head off? Haven’t you heard from the rest of town that I’m not worth the time speaking to? Why do you think I even need to be thanked? His anger barks out before any of his sense can stop him.

“Now you’ve thanked me.” His bitterness says. “You can go.” Let me go back to my post so I can spend another day before I go to my death. Leave me alone.

“Alright.” Her jaw is tense, and there’s something like disappointment in her face. In an instant, he regrets his words. He hadn’t spoken to someone in weeks, someone who could take her fresh face to every doorstep and ask the same questions he had until everyone had shut their doors to him. It would be disrespectful to everything he has done for Carla if his own bitterness throws away a lead. She looks like she wants to say something, but she shakes her head slightly. She turns to go, and he’s already standing, ice cold regret oozing through him.

“Wait.” She looks over her shoulder, dark eyebrow slightly quirked. “You shouldn’t go, you’re new to Novac.” He is surprised he doesn’t fumble his words.

“And?”

“I need someone I can trust.” For the first time, there is a small amount of emotion in her eyes. Curiosity? Amusement? “You’re a stranger. It’s a start.” It sounds silly once he says it, but she turns fully to face him, and considers him, gaze intense as it flits from his beret, to his gun, to his face.

She nods.

“I’m listening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little surprised I was able to get another chapter out so soon. Really wasn't expecting it. We'll learn a little more about the Courier in coming chapters.


End file.
